


From your destination

by randomalia (spilinski)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Love, M/M, Season/Series 01, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4219284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilinski/pseuds/randomalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean won't admit to being afraid of anything except flying, and wouldn't Sam's old psych textbook have a field day with that? Sam, on the other hand, has plenty of fears; he's smart enough to acknowledge it. They're coiled up in his gut and sometimes in his throat. Most of them have something to do with Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From your destination

**Author's Note:**

> Set during season 1.

Getting run out of town was, in all, pretty embarrassing. Dean seemed to think it was kind of funny. He had probably been run out of town before, like the Hollywood-esque freak that he was. Sam just glanced in the rearview a lot and tried to unclench his jaw.

They kept driving until they got away from the sheriff and then pulled over beside a long, russet field; snacked on chips and talked about nothing til the sun went down.

Then they went back.

*

Dean won't admit to being afraid of anything except flying, and wouldn't Sam's old psych textbook have a field day with that? Sam, on the other hand, has plenty of fears; he's smart enough to acknowledge it. They're coiled up in his gut and sometimes in his throat. Most of them have something to do with Dean.

Dean won't admit to being afraid, and Sam won't admit to being worried. It's kind of like when they were kids and Dean swiped that toy gun for Sam to play with while Dad taught Dean how to handle the real thing.

*

The ground was hard-baked and scraped at Sam's palms as he fell; they started to sting. The sheriff was probably tucked up in his bed by now, none the wiser, but the ruddy-faced rancher had been waiting, just in case. He had a whole bunch of 'his boys' ( _I bet they are_ , Dean muttered) hanging out round the back, and they were waiting, too.

_Never try to make your Latin perfect when running from murderous hordes_ , Sam told himself between the crack and rumble of a shotgun.

"C'mon Sam, I gotcha," Dean said, wiping his hand across Sam's forehead, wetting his fingers with sweat or blood.

*

Sam had never been one for romance, but Jess loved all that Valentine stuff and so sometimes he bought flowers and more rarely he bought books (she liked _The Great Gatsby_ and _Harry Potter_ though flowers, she said, made everything brighter). If she had known, Jess probably would have said it was romantic that he spent so long saving up for a ring, but it was always going to take a special kind of lie to go through with that gesture, and that makes it more like blindness.

He's in the backseat with Dean. The flat interior light is disappearing into shadows and falling pale yellow along Dean's profile. Their first-aid kit has been shoved to one side, no stitches needed. Picking up the bloodied gauze and bottle of water, Dean is caught between laughing and cursing; Sam can tell because he knows all Dean's moods.

Sam says, "I think we're just going to have to come up with a better plan than 'get 'em'."

"Worked for the Ghostbusters."

"No, it didn't. They would have been screwed without their proton packs."

"Whatever. Hey, must've dropped your spectacles back there, Egon." Dean laughs to himself, a low exhale.

(Sam decided to forget the time that he had leaned down and almost pushed his face against Dean's skin, and Dean had breathed in. Grey afternoon light pushing against the door beyond his shoulder. They'd checked out as the factory whistles were calling time like a siren; coffee in the closest cafe; interstate maps spread between them on the table.)

The air is warm and dark outside the car. It's quiet enough to hear Dean sigh and the way the seat creaks when he leans back against it. They sit next to each other. Sam closes his eyes to rest a while.

*

When Sam came back around to hunting he had some clothes, a few bits and pieces in his pockets and a list of people he didn't really want to talk to. Every time he and Dean leave somewhere he packs it all into the trunk of the car, right next to Dean's duffel bag, the weaponry, the old, faded upholstery.

Four years make a difference, but not enough that his belongings no longer fit.


End file.
